


DEADCRUSH

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Brief Pining, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-10 14:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20529566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: Deadcrush, a game played based on the question “what historical figure would I want to take on a date if they were alive today?”





	1. Deadcrush

It’s in the middle of receiving a blow to his jaw when Bucky hears your voice whistle through the air above him.

“No way!” You’re yelling, “That’s sick, Peter!”

He glances up for half a second to see you swinging against the New York backdrop, left hand raised and entombed by a thick knot of webbing from Parker who’s launching you and himself across the skyline. Bucky dodges another fist and by the time he’s knocked out the thug trying to get fresh with him, you’ve already finished your trajectory and have bowled over a cluster of bodies. The ground is cracked where you’ve made your descent in the distance, and Parker lands softly next to you.

“Come on!” He cries, pitch rising, “You picked Rasputin!”

You respond with a maniacal giggle. “He’s Russia’s greatest love machine!” With a flick of your wrist, you condescendingly scoff. “Dude, Anne Frank? She was twelve.”

“Rasputin was like a million! And insane! Anne Frank is close to my age, at least. And this is entirely hypothetical—I'm imagining a future with her where she’s older than me. I think we’d totally get along, I read her diary and everything- I mean, we’re _so_ close! Fine--” Parker crosses his arms.

“Marie Curie.”

Your eyes catch Bucky looking and you give him a wide smile and a small wave before you pivot back to Peter. Bucky’s brow furrows even deeper before he turns and heads towards Steve who’s winding down at the end of his own fight. _Kids are fucking weird_, he thinks-a little bitterly, as you and Parker squabble on in the distance.

In the middle of dinner, as he’s twisting a ream of spaghetti onto his fork, you and Parker stand on the balcony eating what looks like a whole baguette smeared with jelly. Through the glass door, Parker crunches into it before handing the baguette off to you. He’s gesturing wildly and brushing crumbs off his suit.

You take a bite too large for your mouth and the crust crumbles down your chin, chased by a dribble of jelly. You level your palm and start measuring Peter’s height much to his indignance, and Bucky has to turn around before he loses his appetite completely. He hears your laughter muffled through the door. Your hand is clasped on Parker’s shoulder in an attempt to hold yourself up.

You’re a funny one. Always joking and cheerful. You’ve been a part of the team for the past six months and you’re closest to Parker both in demeanor and in age, but sometimes Bucky finds you up late at night and the two of you sit at the table over a cup of tea.

You show him inexplicable and strange images from your phone and try your best to explain to him why the frog is on the unicycle and what the hell “yeet” actually means. Once, you show him a video about twerking but when you jokingly proposed that you might teach him instead, he nearly knocked the table over by jerking up, ready to take off.

It always ends with joyful tears in the corners of your eyes.

It makes him a little bit angry with himself because he really has no right to even be talking to you. Cryrosleep aside, he’s almost old enough to be your father. But when your laughter lights up the room, it burns those harsh thoughts from his brain.

He’d never admit it, but when he’s awake after tossing for hours, he hopes you’re in the kitchen.

The door swings open and in-between mouthfuls, Parker is baffled, “Who is that?”

“Ancient poet.” You answer, popping a finger in your mouth, “My girl! Island of Lesbos. She definitely knew how to...” You waggle your eyebrows, make a V-shape with your fingers, and lewdly run your tongue up and down between them. Bucky thinks he sees you looking at him, but he feels himself flushing at your comment and pretends like he’s enthralled with spaghetti.

“Dude. Stop it.” Peter moans.

In the middle of movie night, another showing of Mary Poppins, you and Parker once again tuck away into the corner of the Stark auditorium with a shared blanket and chatter vehemently. Bucky doesn’t know which is more irritating—Van Dyke’s terrible accent, or the fact that the two of you are attached by the hip today.

“Marilyn Monroe!” Parker whispers.

From the corner of his eye, Bucky watches you contemplate your reply before leaning in impossibly close to Peter. The young man’s jaw clenches as his eyes widen like saucers. He shoots Bucky a look, as if catching him eavesdropping.

“_What!?”_ Peter shrieks.

The entire room turns to look at the two of you. You clamp your hand over Peter’s mouth, bury your face into the side of his head.

“That’s the safest one!” You say.

“No! No, it’s _definitely _not safe!” He responds back, voice cracking slightly and pushing your face away when your hair tickles him. “Gettoffa— God! Are you serious!?”

“Okay, what the hell is this conversation?” Natasha pauses the movie and leans over the back of the recliner.

Peter pulls the cover over his face and you start giggling again.

“We’re talking about our DC’s.” You finally admit, pausing enough to calm yourself.

“DC’s?” Steve questions.

“Dead crushes.” There it is again- that little look you send his way. He thinks three times is at least one too many to be just a dream.

“Dead-what-now?” Sam is incredulous.

“You guys have never played this game before? You know, pick one person from history who you’d take out to dinner if circumstances made it possible.”

Peter pokes his head out, “And look, please tell her that all of my choices are perfectly reasonable! Anne Frank? Marilyn Monroe? Marie Curie? She picked Rasputin! And not because of that weird old song.”

You scoff because Boney M is a fine example of industry-bottled pop music and beat Milli Vanilli as the façade of genuine artistry by miles.

“Rasputin’s a bit dark, isn’t he?” Steve shakes his head.

Sticking your tongue out at him, you land your gaze on Natasha with a sly smirk.

“Who would you pick, sexy international Russian spy? Let’s get a peek into that gorgeous red head of yours.” She licks her lips at your overt flirtation and flips her hair over her shoulder.

Bucky folds his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair he’s on. This was your game—saddling up to people with effortless compliments and humor, reading a personality so well and maneuvering yourself to fit just right into their expectations. Who else could be so forward with Natasha, joking or otherwise? _Who else would suggest teaching him how to twerk? Fuck._

Natasha mulls the question over for a second, “Stalin. I’d take him to dinner. And then to his grave.”

There’s an exasperated sound that escapes your lips. “Okay, that’s not really how the game works. This is not supposed to be a political commentary- it's a genuine display of … attraction!”

“To corpses.” Bucky mutters.

“Okay, _that’s_ dark.” You and Peter exhale in unison. The giggles that escape both of you as you start calling “jinx” on each other before wrestling on that tiny fucking sofa chair makes him bite back a growl. From the couch to his left, Steve notices.

In the middle of pouring scalding water into a plain white mug, Bucky feels a tap on his shoulder. “No.” He greets the finger. “Nope. Steve. Goodnight, jerk.”

“You’re actin’ like a kid, Buck.”

Bucky huffs as he sets the kettle back down with a clatter on the stovetop.

“No.” _The problem is that I’m not the kid,_ Bucky scolds himself for even having the thought surface.

Steve half-heartedly sighs because Bucky is so smitten it’s almost painful to watch. It’s obvious to him and the rest of the team that the two of you dance around each other under the pretense of professionalism, but he knows that the laughter coming from down the hallway late at night is more meaningful than a work relationship.

The first time Steve had seen Bucky lean into a friendly touch was when you had placed your hand on his back, steadying yourself as you fixed your shoe. It was such an offhanded gesture, and Bucky tensed briefly before holding out his arm for you. You didn’t realize his intention and took his entire vibranium hand with a firm squeeze before waltzing off, leaving him to gaze after your disappearing trail. That was three weeks into Bucky’s time at the compound, and your fourth month. It opened Steve’s eyes to a possibility he hadn’t yet entertained.

Steve thinks part of how easily you had infiltrated Bucky’s stonewall demeanor is, in fact, your age. You were right on the cusp of balancing maturity and immaturity, often teetering into the immature waters out of habit. You stayed up late for no reason, played video games for hours, ate all sorts of odd meals with no care for your health, and always gladly shared anything that made you smile. It was infectious. You lacked the exact type of self-awareness everyone else had that made them so careful with Buck— and he let you slip through the cracks effortlessly.

It’s your childlike happiness that had done it for Bucky, Steve thinks.

Even though it’s now become a point of uneasiness for his friend, Steve is thankful that you’re exactly how old you are. It’s helped him more than harmed him so far.

Bucky takes a sip of his peppermint and lemon tea and leans against the counter. Steve watches him with amusement as his shoulders tense when your chortle bounces into the room. You’re telling Peter goodnight as he heads back home to Queens.

“Hey!” You call, “Sunrise tomorrow?”

A faint affirmation is heard before Parker’s whooping whips faintly in the distance with his departure, swinging away. The front door closes and you pop into the kitchen wearing nothing but a swimsuit cover-up, full of diamond-shaped holes. A tiny triangle pink bikini peeks out from underneath the pattern. Bucky averts his gaze because the women of his time did not dress like that and he’s not even sure looking in your direction is legal.

“Night swimming?” Steve asks with a smirk at his friend, who turns around to hide the red creeping up his cheeks like vines.

You nod eagerly before opening the pantry and grabbing a box of Oreos from the top shelf. Tucking one into your mouth, you crunch through it and swallow before closing the pantry door and placing the container under your arm. Crumbs fall down your chest and you curse under your breath as you swipe bits of cookie from your top, oblivious to why Steve suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.

“Hey me and double-P are gonna watch the sunrise on top of the Chrysler building tomorrow- you two wanna come? He’ll swing you right up! It’s fun! I’m gonna make breakfast!”

They both shake their head and you mutter something about their loss for a free roller coaster and good view. Bucky and Steve follow your path out the door and hear the patter of your feet before you crash into the deep midnight water with a tremendous cannonball. They watch as your head breaks the surface of ripples before you lean back and squirt water from your mouth like a fountain. Music surges from the outdoor speakers— a seductive Latin Pop tune with hints of reggaeton. You float over to the pool’s edge and throw another cookie in your mouth, bopping along to the groove enthusiastically, shoulders winding to the ebb and flow of water.

“C’mon, Buck.” Steve urges, motioning his head to where you float lazily in the pool, watching the moon, nodding your head to synth beats and timbales drumming. “Forget age… she woulda been your kinda girl back in the day.”

Bucky swallows and turns to his steaming mug, “There were no girls like her back in the day.”

It’s in the middle of his nightmare when Bucky jerks awake and smells buttered toast and coffee. It’s still dark out, only four-something, but he stumbles to the restroom and brushes his teeth anyway. When he arrives at the kitchen, you’re standing at the stovetop wearing athletic shorts and bunny slippers. There’s a frilly orange apron tied neatly to your waist, covering a shredded crop-top, and you’re flipping a hearty slice of bread with an egg in the center.

“Hey Sarge.” You smile, “Help yourself to an eggy. Yolk’s runny and dippable, just like God intended.”

He shakes his head no because he knows you’re preparing it for Peter, but sits down on a stool anyway, leaning over the counter to watch you with interest. When one piece of toast cooks, you move to crack fresh pepper and sea salt over another. You also slice tomatoes and rinse fresh basil leaves, tunelessly humming the whole time. When you stifle a yawn with your shoulder, Bucky squints at the tell-tale blue bags under your eyes.

“Again?”

You rub your neck with a guilty smile and take a sip of water, “Got stuck on the internet… reading about… I can’t even... I know I started with Kennedy… but the last browser is bee swarming and royal jelly...”

He laughs when you go off on a rant about how bees communicate with each other, even demonstrating for him something you called a “waggle dance”, and he’s not sure if you’re just making shit up or not but it’s cute as hell when you bend your elbows and shuffle in figure eights on the tile.

“So then, me, a bee, would show you, another bee, this dance… and then you would go find the yummy flower! And did you know bees would dance with excitement depending on how convinced they are about the quality of the flower!? They get excited!” You repeat the same figure eight this time accompanied by elbow flapping and happy buzzing. The sound vibrates between your teeth and sizzles over your lips.

Bucky’s laughing so hard he has to put his face in his hand. Finally, you settle down.

“Now your turn.” You tease. He shakes his head defiantly, eyes still brimming with amusement.

You pour him a steaming mug of coffee and slide it next to his hand with a small smile. There’s a strange light in your bleary eyes as you bite your bottom lip.

A pink flush suddenly sweeps across your cheeks.

“What?” Bucky asks, taking a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste as it rolls down his throat.

“It’s stupid...it’s nothing.” The awkward laugh coming from your throat makes Bucky shuffle in the stool, wary and slightly concerned. Before you can continue, Steve pokes his head in and announces he’s going for a run and asks you to save him some breakfast when he gets back. Bucky checks the time on the microwave. Almost five.

Something dings on the bar counter and you move to grab your phone, frowning and placing your hands on the ruffles against your hip. A disappointed noise sputters from your mouth before you tear off the apron and turn off the stovetop with a quiet fury. “He cancelled!” You cry, disappointment darkening your features. “I made all this crap!”

Bucky looks over the countertop arrangement of perfectly crispy thick multigrain toast, shiny fried eggs, tupperware containers of tomato and shredded basil, and two thermoses of coffee and juice. Your shoulders slump as you place your hands on your hips and lean back to pop your neck and crack your knuckles. You pick up the trash can and kick off its lid, placing the edge of the gaping dark maw against the counter, holding your arm out to sweep the food in. Your generally pleasant features are stained by a scowl.

He forgets how impulsive you can be.

“Wait!” Bucky yells, reaching across the counter. “I’ll go. I’ll watch the sunrise with you.” When you stare at him in surprise, he quickly glances around the countertops, “Let’s not waste all this. You worked really hard on it.”

A squeal escapes as you drop the trash can and clasp your two hands together in a cheer. “Bucky. You are…” you suck in a deep breath and hold your hands over your heart, “just the best. My number one… Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the one-oh-seventh.”

His heart leaps just a tad as his former title rolls off your tongue almost wistfully. Bucky opens his mouth to ask you what you mean but you’re balancing two containers of foil-wrapped toast, another one of tomato slices and the thermoses are hanging precariously on your middle fingers. Bucky leaps from his seat and takes the food from you, leaving the thermoses in your hand.

“To the roof, Sarge!” You smile, leading the way. He follows closely behind and raises his eyebrow curiously when you keep looking back at him every few steps.

It’s in the middle of biting into the most heavenly piece of toast he’s ever had that Bucky hears you giggle shyly. You’re rarely bashful— usually _too_ sharp-tongued and unfiltered is how most people would describe you. It’s why your best friend is Peter Parker: boy genius, mile-a-minute-mouth.

“What is it?” Bucky’s teeth crunch against the crisp brown edge, the bite of egg sliding over his tongue.

You’re leaned back on your palm, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as you chew pensively on a slice of tomato. The sky is a blackened bruise behind you, disappearing into the balm of a soft, glowing orange.

“You were my deadcrush back in the day.” You mutter, hiding your lips with the tomato. Bucky stops mid-chew and freezes completely, unsure if the confession is just another trick his mind is playing on him. Maybe a breeze in the wind just sounds like your voice. “Not to make this weird…” you supply almost fearfully.

“Oh…”

“I mean— you know, it was totally normal. All the girls either liked Captain America or Sergeant Barnes.” You stuff the tomato in your mouth and reach for another just to busy your hands. Bucky’s face heats up like the morning, and he takes a sip of orange juice to calm it down.

“Sure,” you ramble onward, tomato flinging around between your fingers as you gesture back and forth, “I mean, most of them liked Cap— golden lion boy and all—hero’s journey kind of thing… I guess I felt, closer to you.”

You exhale deeply, “When you first came to the tower, I thought I was dreaming. Can you imagine? I felt like I was in the sixth grade.”

His brow furrows as he ponders your question. “Is that why you’re so nice to me?” It slips out before he can catch it, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“Probably at first,” You admit with a little shrug, “But eventually the schoolgirl crush thing went away, and I started liking you _way_ more. Genuinely, y’know? Not under the thumb of a paltry, fleeting thing.”

He forgets how unexpectedly introspective you can be.

The tomato in your hand is only a shimmer of juice on your fingers now and you reach for something else to occupy yourself lest you become reduced to just weighing your hands together out of nervousness. You pause when Bucky asks, shocked, “You l-like me?”

Then, a smile, against the warming backdrop, he thinks you look like something out of a painter’s imagination—a delicate page from Steve’s notepad. A light breeze picks up your bangs, makes you squint a little.

“Yeah. I like you a lot.”

How does someone say such a heavy thing so easily? Bucky turns hot all over, heart beating too fast from your statement and the coffee made too strongly. “Thank you.”

You laugh and throw your head back for a second before shaking your hair wildly and sitting up, as if you’re discarding something. Pink glows on your cheeks as you catch your breath and take the coffee thermos from him. “You’re welcome, Bucky.” Then, softer, “Look.”

A streak of yellow opens up the sky in the east, melting away the ink around it into flames of blood orange and cerise. Still twinkling are the stars entrenched in deep blue further away.

“I’m not dead anymore.” He states plainly. “I can’t be your deadcrush if I’m not dead anymore.”

A chortle escapes- snorts and scoffs and not at all what he expects when you push your hand to your face and laugh in such a way that he might for a split second find it unattractive. But he doesn’t. He finds it so truly endearing that his heart swells like clouds over the morning sky.

A part of him quiets with the settling feeling of disappointment. Your silence gets swirled around in the next bitter mouthful of coffee and Bucky kicks his heel aimlessly against the concrete rooftop. To his left, you scoot a little closer, reach over and take the thermos from his hand. Your fingers linger, and then you put the container down.

“Bucky,” You say. His name so sweetly rolls off your tongue he can taste it—spun sugar and molasses in his mouth. It’s orange and yellow and blue behind you. Your eyes glisten with promise, as sure as the sunrise.

“You can want things, like love.”

It’s so forthright it punches the air right out of him. Before he knows it, you are leaning forward with a smile, planting a tender kiss on his cheek as he stares on open-mouthed and in awe.

And then, you break the moment with a yawn covered by your hand and groan as fatigue slips over like a blanket. “Oh fuck, I am _beat_, Sarge. Why’d you let me stay up so late?”

He only smiles before he puts his hand over yours for just a moment. “Come on,” He says, “I’ll help you clean up.” But the moment changes again, and he finds himself crawling past the containers of egg and toast, nearly knocking over the juice to hover over your mouth.

Coffee and cream linger between hesitant lips. Then there is a feverish clash-- you, clambering to sit up, to match him in enthusiasm-- him, bold enough to meet your surge with two large hands. He snakes them around your waist, crushing your torso to his.

Your fingers create a separation between your stomachs as you ruck his shirt up, gripping his chest and back and digging into his shoulder. A sharp breath escapes before he comes to snuff it out, licking your mouth, sucking on your tongue.

“Jesus.” You mutter when you break away for air, eyes still closed, “God. Okay. This is happening.”

Bucky laughs and sits back, places his hand on your bare thigh, shaking his head. “I—yeah, well maybe not here.”

“Yeah- yeah, of course… I .. get so caught up.”

He laughs again, because he knows. It’s why you haven’t slept all night, why you made a feast for just two people watching a sunrise, why you ramble on about the most mundane things but somehow still enrapture him, and it’s why he likes you. Your cheeks burn pink when the first ray of sunshine shoots over the treescape.

A ding next to your hand catches his attention—a text from Steve.

You peer at it curiously before opening the message. Bucky looks too, and sees the image of the same sunrise he’s witnessed, but over the familiarity of the East Side sprawl.

A second message appears, Steve grinning, Peter winking.

A third one with a single, cheeky question: You and Buck doin’ good?

Bucky slips his shirt back down his golden torso while you tap out a furious response, groaning at the way you’ve been set up by your friends. Before you can send it, he takes the device from you and places it face-down on the roof with a smile. “Are we?” He asks, suddenly shy. “Doin’ good?”

Quietly, you nod.

In the middle of a second kiss, Bucky knows he’s done for. He’s falling hard and fast and can’t stop.

In the middle of a third kiss, you’re there next to him, all smiles and wonder as the two of you plunge together.


	2. Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problem: a matter or situation regarded as unwelcome or harmful and needing to be dealt with and overcome.

There is a routine now that Bucky is with you. There is a routine that introduces order to your life and comfort to his. There is also fun, so much fun—movie nights full of cuddling and inside jokes, lap races in the pool punctuated with wet and sloppy chlorine kisses, missions filled with impatient energy and heated bodies snuck away inside supply closets.

He can’t get enough of how you squeal and whine under his hands. Even though he’s re-discovering how to kiss and touch, you tell him it’s all wonderful, that you love it, that you can’t get enough. Your smile flashes like headlights and blinds him completely.

So, there is tension. He’s nervous and wound up and even though you are the balm that can soothe him, you are also the flame that ignites him.

And then for once—for the first time in seven months since he’s met you, on a Saturday evening, there is a problem.

Bucky feels like he is being ripped in half. Split open like a paper doll when he sees you leaned up against a table next to a stranger.

The Latin Pop you are such a fan of bumps through the compound speakers, vies for the attention of his ears. People dance in the middle of the floor, drinks in hand, adults letting go of their inhibitions at a Stark party, all liquored up and loose tongued.

“What’s up, Buck?”

Steve notices the tension in Bucky’s shoulders, the downward curve of his mouth and the way his eyes blaze a clear path over to the bar.

“You uh—hey…” Steve’s voice is low and firm when he realizes what has Bucky so mesmerized. “_Don’t_, pal.”

“Don’t what?” Bucky hisses, eyes fixed ahead. _Don’t get upset? Too fucking late_, he thinks.

“She’s just talking to someone. People do that.”

Yes, he sees you talking. But he also sees that you have a beer bottle in each hand- one empty, the other you are pouring down your throat like its water and you are lost in the desert, and then he sees you twirl them both around like drumsticks.

He sees the way that guy hovering over you grins and laughs and puts his hand on your bare shoulder.

He sees the outfit you are wearing tonight, something he felt a little stitch about when you first emerged from your room. A top with little frilled ruffles, hem sitting high on your torso, neatly pinched into a triangle point at the middle of your sternum. A strip of your chest shows before the matching skirt with two slit up the sides flows down, down, all the way to your toes. You’re dusted head to toe in pale pink, lips glossed, lashes flared.

And he just can’t fucking help it because you are so _pretty_, glowing and smiling that wide stretch of your mouth he daydreams about when you’re not around.

And now some fucking guy is completely spellbound and will daydream about those lips too.

At your door, he had said, “Honey—you uh, you wearin’ that tonight?”

“Yeah! You like it?” You chirped, flouncing around him like a woodland nymph, bursting forth with energy, anticipating the moment when he’d compliment you. Of course he liked it. Of course. You could be wearing a damn potato sack and he would like it.

Now Steve is shaking his head at him, pained to see once again how utterly smitten his friend is. He knows Bucky has always had a protective streak, all those years ago, so defensive of any girl on his arm. Its blanket under the ice has been chipped away, waking up the dormant turmoil until it rose up to flare out of Bucky’s eyes.

Steve also knows you are utterly oblivious and entirely unaware of this situation. Not that you should feel one way or the other because he knows Bucky is _also_ being unfair.

“Buck.” Steve warns, “You can’t get mad at some guy for trying.”

Bucky says nothing.

“Bucky.” Steve calls again, more firmly. “The girl you like is beautiful. It happens. _Look_ at her.”

Across the room, you wave, biting your lip with your teeth in a smile and shrugging your shoulders coyly at him. Then your attention is caught by Peter strutting up, engaging you in a conversation and pulling you away to marvel at the fish tank Tony had brought in last week. You snatch the beer from Peter’s hand and scold him for underage drinking.

The _fucking _guy at the bar stands baffled.

Bucky can’t help but shake his head at the way you lean on Parker, elbow on his shoulder, a whole head taller than him with your heels on, foot tapping to the beat of the music. You tilt your ear onto the top of his combed brown hair and point to a glowing streaked fin on a lustrous rainbow fish.

“Holy shit look at that shiny boy!” You squeal, turning to gaze at Bucky and give him another grin. His heart flutters as you completely forget Parker and nearly skip over to him.

“Hey.” Bucky breathes when you nuzzle his neck, getting a lungful of the flowery perfume you sprayed on earlier this evening. He had watched you affectionately as you spritzed it into the air and walked through, eyes shut, muttering something about not using too much but not knowing how else to “do the damn thing”.

Steve plucks the empty beer bottle from you and sets it on the table with a smirk.

“You havin’ fun?” Steve questions and you nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah. Have you guys seen the fish yet? There’s this _awesome_ one with a silver fin. Oh, Pete!”

Peter is standing with his arms outstretched, brow scrunched, and mouth open peevishly as if to ask _What the hell, man?_ Until you careen back next to him at the tank, cackling all the while. “Sorry! I got-”

“Yeah, yeah, saw your boyfriend. I’m nothing to you!”

“You are such a baby, Peter. Oh _dude_, there’s a little shrimp in there. Look, Double P! It’s _you_!”

Steve looks pointedly at Bucky, now softened and adoring again. “Didja hear that, Buck? She thinks the one with the _silver_ fin is _awesome_.”

“Shut up. Jerk.”

He looks at you with a smile, wiggling around on your feet, bouncing to the music cheerfully and teasing Parker. He looks at your shiny hair, your rosy cheeks, your nose scrunched up as you laugh. That mouth he daydreams about.

He looks at you suddenly propping your hands up against the tank, feet stepping apart as the music quiets for a split second before the beat drops. Shocked, Bucky looks at you _twerking _against an audience of iridescent fish and Parker, who is screeching for you to stop.

And he bursts into laughter.

And then, suddenly, the problem disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked if I would consider doing a part 2 to DEADCRUSH ... so here it is! 1k word count because I can be brief!


	3. Stack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested: I would adore more reader/Peter platonic interaction like, please give us a fic listing off all the wack ass shit they do, including the time they buy a massive baguette and attempt to make and eat a real big sandwich, but they use one of Tony's cards to buy it and he walks over to ask them about it only to see them going full goblin on a massive sandwich. Also they most definitely make the "I hope I die" jokes with a straight face and the entire team is like horrified at them

After the Terrible Twerkfest at Tony’s party, you and Peter are banned from attending any more tower events unless they are specifically low-key with no governors, elites, outside friends, family members, children, or animals. Even the fish have been taken away and placed in Tony’s office.

_For their safety_, Tony hisses with his arms crossed the next morning as you nurse a tremendous hangover, slumped across Bucky’s lap on the couch. _Christ, Barnes, will you keep an eye on this menace?_

Then he throws a withering look to your feet, placed over Peter’s knee, and shakes his head. _I’m disappointed in you, kid. _

Peter blushes and sucks noisily on his juice box and the sound of it goes straight into your throbbing eyes.

Tony stomps out soon after—another twenty-five minutes of grousing where his voice sounds like the parents of those old Charlie Brown movies: _wah wah waaaaaah_.

You tuck your hand into the pocket of your pajama pants, poke Peter with your big toe and whack the heavy plastic rectangle against your thigh.

“Check it out, Double P.”

“Oh _dude_. Give back! He’s gonna kill me!”

Bucky groans, carefully lifts your head and places you back down onto the cushion. “I can’t be a part of this.” He mutters before making his exit, too.

Bless his heart, your sweet boyfriend. He adores you, you know, but in the famous words of Miley Cyrus circa 2010, you _can’t be tamed_, Bucko.

Peter tries to snatch Tony’s credit card from you, but you’re faster and roll forward until you’re perched both feet on the top of his thighs. He grunts with your weight and starts punching your toes in hopes of getting you off.

“Hey Pete,” you say, staring dead into his eyes, hangover suddenly absent. “You ever watch those old Scooby-Doo cartoons with the subliminal weed messages?”

-

It’s monstrous.

It’s a travesty and a miracle and holy fuckin’ _like, yoinks, Scoob_—it’s _real_.

Sam shrieks when he walks into the kitchen and finds the two of you marveling at the massive creation stacked high over both your heads. It’s even higher than _his_ head. 

“What the HELL is that?!”

Peter leans over the side, inspecting the stack and rams his finger into a tomato that threatens to slide out. Then, Sam watches in horror as the same finger slides down a few stories of—he doesn’t even _know_—but then it shoves itself into what looks like a layer of vanilla icing.

You cackle, spearing a tiny dill pickle with two welded-together wooden skewers before thrusting it down the middle of the tower. The thing wobbles back and forth before settling, stilled by its new support. Then, you and Peter clap in unison, cheering each other and kissing your fingertips in a dramatic flair.

“Chef,” You bow, “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“No, _Chef_!” He responds, “I am but your humble servant.”

Peter Parker’s former apprehension from two hours ago has also fled with your hangover. Even if you were still reeling from last night’s three beers, two cocktails, and five very full shots of whiskey, this big boy is the mother_fucker_ of all hangover cures.

Bread. Ham. Ketchup. Mustard. Cheese. Lettuce. Tomato. Sardine. Marshmallow. Fudge. Ad nauseam. All topped with a shiny mini Vlasic dill pickle.

You crack your knuckles. Peter cracks his neck. Sam throws up in his mouth a little.

The door swings open and ten strutting feet approach and almost audibly screech to a halt at the sight before them.

You and Peter are going absolutely mental on this thing. If Steven King wrote a novel about the horrors of how one might consume a sandwich—this would be it. If Mary Shelley were alive to witness this transgression against nature, Frankenstein’s Monster would have been a sandwich and not a man. If Lovecraft—fucking Lovecraft—Cthulu would be a different beast—a multigrained type of beast.

There is fudge and fish smeared across your forehead. Peter has what looks like flecks of cheddar inside of his ear. The two of you are balancing this tower between your four hands by some sweet grace of God because there is no logical explanation for how it can support its weight in any way.

There is a secret language being passed between you two, muffled warbling, hisses of air through nostrils, quirks of chins and heads, pointing each other where to eat next.

You slowly take one hand away from the stack and dig your fingers into your back pocket. Between your index and your middle sits the heavy matte card of Tony Stark. It reels back before you fling it straight into his forehead with a _splat_—mustard speckling over his glasses and nose.

“You… goddamn… _Barnes!_” He wheezes like a kettle, “_What_ did I say!?”

Bucky can only stare. It was only last night that he swore he saw you ethereal like an angel. Dusted pink. Now you’re drenched in ketchup and lettuce.

“You’re grounded! Both of you! _Grounded!_ No! Matter of fact, _all_ of you are grounded!” For the second time that day, Tony stomps from the room.

Bucky watches as you wink at him—or maybe, you’re blinking the crumbs out of your eye. He sighs happily, thinks about how you could still be an angel, albeit a kind of… crazy one.

He claps Steve on the shoulder, “Pal…” He smiles, “There really were no girls like her back in the day.”

Steve snorts loudly, enough for you to hear him, “Buck, if there were any girls like her back in the day,” He mutters, “they would have all died from food poisoning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "full goblin" comment made me WHEEZE. Thank you anon for the incredible imagery. I love my chaos children.

**Author's Note:**

> OOP my hand slipped because i love him so much.


End file.
